The Parlourmaid
by slytherinsal
Summary: When a reporter friend of Raymond West finds that he has a puzzle that he cannot solve he dubiously accepts Raymond's advice to consult Aunt Jane.


**The Parlourmaid**

"My friend Raymond West suggested I came to see you" I said, sipping china tea without enthusiasm "He said there was nobody quite like his Aunt Jane to unravel puzzling events."

"Dear Raymond; so good of him to say so" fluttered the elderly lady. She was a froth of pink wool that was some kind of a comforter – mind you the day WAS cold – and was busy knitting some other confection in fluffy white wool that by its size was intended for a newborn of some description. I was frankly beginning to wonder if Raymond had not been hitting the bottle to recommend so unlikely a confidant. Her china blue eyes seemed quite guileless and she smiled a prim little smile at me that put me in mind of a typical governess. "Do go on, Mr Blake" she said "Tell me what it is that puzzles you."

"I'm a reporter" I told her "I write stories about celebrities."

"Excellent" she gave me her prim smile "You should be able to lay out all the facts in order; it makes it so much easier to know which ones to discard when you write your stories."

I could not suspect an innocent looking old lady of having made any sort of snide comment; and perhaps there are times when I have not reported all the facts in order to make a better story, but one cannot expect an elderly lady in an obscure village to read the latest film gossip or to realise that. Nevertheless I felt a little uncomfortable with her smiling at me as though I was about to repeat a lesson to her and was about to get caught out for having skimped on my study.

"I found out that Phoebe Henderson had taken a cottage in a small village and I wanted to interview her" I said "You may not have heard of her?" I made it a query ready to explain about the new sensation.

She smiled.

"Phoebe Henderson has, as the dreadful parlance of the film reviews say, 'come out of nowhere' to become famous" she said in that gentle voice of hers. "Risen from an obscure and poverty stricken heritage she has taken the stage by storm. She played the lead in dear Raymond's latest book that has been turned into a play; 'I want sometimes gets' it is called; you are familiar with it? Her double role…."

"Yes of course" I said hastily. Raymond goes down well with the critics though I could scarcely see his strong sort of writing appealing to a maiden aunt! "It was one reason I wanted to interview her."

"Such a pretty girl!" said Miss Marple "Rather terrifying for her I should think to be thrust into the limelight like that and to have reporters hounding her. I do hope it wasn't Raymond who gave away her location to you; I should be very displeased with him if he had."

"No, it wasn't Raymond" I said quickly. I was not about to admit that I had read an address upside-down on Raymond's desk. I stood up to stride up and down the room to avoid having to meet those china blue eyes. Somehow I suspected that she knew… "I went down to Netherfield – the village – and found the house easily enough. And that was when everything became quite surreal."

"Indeed? Describe it exactly Mr Blake; do not leave anything out" Miss Marple instructed.

"Very well; I knocked. It seemed a long time but as I was about to knock again the door was opened by a parlourmaid."

"What did she look like?" asked Miss Marple.

I was irritated.

"What does that matter? She was just a parlourmaid; she looked like any other parlourmaid; black dress, white lace cap, lace trimmed apron."

"Tall? Short? Fat? Thin? Pretty or plain? Come Mr Blake, did you not even notice if she had neat ankles?" said Miss Marple.

"I don't need an old maid's prurient interest in whether I notice females or not" I said sharply "And no, for your information, I was not ogling her; I wanted to speak to her mistress."

"Dear me!" murmured Miss Marple "How extraordinary that you should assume I thought you might ogle her. That IS suggestive; very suggestive indeed. She must have been very pretty for your inner self to feel so much disquietude that your primary purpose was almost distracted."

I felt myself flush; and I have not done that for many years.

"Now look here, Miss Marple, am I going to tell you this story or not?" I asked.

"Well, Mr Blake" she said almost apologetically "If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head I fear, friend of Raymond's or not, I should not be inclined to listen. Now let me see, knit two together, purl one, knit one" she murmured to herself as she performed some arcane rite of witchery with the knitting needles. My face was burning.

"I apologise" I said. "Perhaps you have a reason for asking."

"My dear Mr Blake I never ask anything without a reason" she said reprovingly. "Very well; I accept your apology. You may go on."

"Well I asked for Miss Henderson. She told me that her mistress was having a bath but that I might come in" at which I paused; Miss Marple had cleared her throat delicately.

"Mr Blake" she said "I would ask that you do your best to tell everything; a reported gist of a conversation does NOT fall into that description."

I sighed.

"I said 'I should like to see Miss Henderson'" I said "And then she replied 'Miss 'Enderson's 'Avin' a bath, sir; will you come in and wait?' so I followed her in and she showed me into the parlour. Or I assume it was the parlour" I said.

"You did not give your name or a card before she told you that Miss Henderson was having a bath, nor did she ascertain if you knew Miss Henderson?" asked Miss Marple.

"I – no" I said. "She said 'would you like a cuppa, sir?' so I said 'yes please' and I sat down and read a magazine and presently she knocked at the door and came in with the tray. I beg your pardon?" Miss Marple had looked up at me from her knitting.

"Oh nothing Mr Blake; do go on" she said, knitting furiously.

"Well I drank the tea – it was vile but it was something to do; and I felt a bit sleepy. The next thing I knew was that I was waking up and I was sitting in a ditch a mile away! At least, by the time I had located a sign post I discovered that I was a mile away. I was furious! It took me the best part of an hour to walk back – the roads weren't obvious – and you can believe I hammered on that door to have words with the maid!"

"And when the door was opened it was someone else entirely?"

"Yes! How did you guess? Some housewife with a couple of brats playing around her feet and her head tied up in a scarf probably still in curlers!" I said in disgust.

"And did you notice the housewife particularly?" asked Miss Marple.

"Why would I? she was typical of her kind; mousy creature, probably beaten by a drunken husband. Seemed half witted; repeated over and over that I had the wrong house, that she had never had a parlourmaid and asked if I were in need of a doctor. A doctor! Mind you by the time I left I thought I was going barmy; if the same brats hadn't been playing in the street as were munching biscuits in the house I'd have wondered if I was in the same village even!"

"Ah!" said Miss Marple "That was how she managed it. An astute young woman; very good at misdirection. But she made one or two mistakes."

"What are you talking about?" I cried. "What happened? Where was Miss Henderson? Why was I drugged by the maid? How did they get a whole new family moved in during the time I was asleep and walking back?"

"Mr Blake" said Miss Marple "You are a rather contumelious type I believe; and since I think it entirely likely that Miss Henderson has now reluctantly moved abode once again I will tell you what happened. I suspect that Raymond saw you looking at something that gave you a clue to Miss Henderson's direction and telephoned her to warn her of your imminent arrival. Miss Henderson had her costume with her for the play; wherein the plot calls for her to dress as a parlourmaid as a young woman who has been deprived of her birthright by a technicality on the part of another member of the family who is a solicitor. Nobody looks at a parlourmaid; on which point the story hinges. Her character murders all the other claimants in a series of improbable ways, the implication in dear Raymond's rubric that the other characters are so unpleasant that she is justified. Murder is not, of course" she added "Ever justified; and the story is most unrealistic in that she then disappears, except that it is the parlourmaid who disappears and the – one hesitates to call her the heroine – resumes a quiet humdrum life and consequently inherits. In real life of course the police would use the parlourmaid's fingerprints and would compare them to anyone with an interest in the case; but poor dear Raymond does like to write about such unpleasant people. Where was I?" she was deep in a flurry of soft white wool.

"You were describing the play" I said "You mean the parlourmaid was Miss Henderson? She had given her own parlourmaid the day off?"

Miss Marple cleared her throat delicately.

"I would suspect that Miss Henderson has no parlourmaid, nor indeed any servants, being unaccustomed to having any. Had she been used to having such she would not have made the mistakes that made it obvious that the parlourmaid was no real parlourmaid."

"I don't understand" I said.

"No well trained parlourmaid would either drop her h's as you described; nor would she even consider knocking at the door before bringing in the tea. Well trained servants NEVER knock" said Miss Marple. "Miss Henderson is an excellent actress; but I fear without a script she cannot improvise without knowledge of the situation she is simulating."

"Good God!" I said. I flushed again as Miss Marple looked shocked.

"He is indeed good, but not to be taken in vain" she reproved.

"I'm sorry" I mumbled "But – but what about the young family?"

"Dear me, Mr Blake, have you failed to work that out too?" said Miss Marple reprovingly "The young mother was also Miss Henderson, in an equally typical role, another of those people that you obviously do not look at. You cannot, Mr Blake, be a very good reporter if you do not NOTICE things."

"But the children!" I expostulated.

"Nothing could be easier to explain" said Miss Marple "Doubtless a neighbour's children; you saw them playing earlier. Miss Henderson comes from a lowly background and probably finds it quite easy to chat to the ordinary folk in a village. To invite the neighbour's children in for refreshments would be simplicity itself; perhaps she was amusing them by doing impressions of village people to keep them there until a dogged but rather dull reporter returned."

I resented being called dull; but how embarrassing that a newshound, able to smell out a story and write an exposé of any celebrity should be shown up by a dowdy little old lady covered in a mass of fluffy pink and white wool!

She was quite correct; of that I had no doubt, thinking back to the looks of both parlourmaid and downtrodden housewife. Wretched woman! When I found out what her antecedents really were I should spread them all over the paper for her having fooled me!

My gaze was caught by two implacable china blue eyes.

"I am also on the telephone, Mr Blake" said Miss Marple mildly "And I shall be suggesting to my nephew that he speak with Miss Henderson to advise giving her story – her whole story – exclusively to someone who will present it sympathetically. There is too much wickedness in this world to have an innocent girl exposed to spite. I have explained what has happened to you in the hopes that a degree of hubris might enable you to be a better reporter and a better person."

"But she drugged me; that's an offence" I said. I winced to hear a whine in my voice.

"Oh? But you did not look at the parlourmaid, Mr Blake" said Miss Marple "Somehow I fancy that is going to be hard to prove. I do not condone her having done this; but then under the circumstances I cannot find myself disapproving. You see, I have read some of your articles in the magazines dear Raymond sends to me. Really I shall have to tell him to be more careful in his choice of friends; he might be able to write about unrealistically unpleasant people but he is far too trusting and naïve" she sighed.

Somehow, as I took my embarrassed leave, I fancied that Raymond West, writer of hard-hitting and gritty novels would perhaps not quite like being described as trusting and naïve. I decided that it was not for me to tell him that his aunt had described him thus.

I came away feeling more bruised than I had since unpleasant interviews with my headmaster in my schooldays; she was a frightening old woman indeed!


End file.
